


Don’t Just Count Your Years (Make Your Years Count)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Spanking, Birthday Tradition, Detroit Red Wings, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Spanking, birthday surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has a birthday surprise for Hank. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Just Count Your Years (Make Your Years Count)

“Don’t just count your years, make your years count.”—George Meredith

Don’t Just Count Your Years (Make Your Years Count) 

Hiding out between the mops and buckets in a closet that smelled strongly enough of cleaning fluids that it had to be toxic after prolonged exposure, especially in a confined space like this where there wasn’t even a window to crack for fresh air—or what passed for fresh air in Detroit—wasn’t exactly how Hank had envisioned spending any part of his birthday, but he had survived practice and changing in the locker room afterward without getting a shaving cream pie tossed in his face, and he wanted to keep it that way even if it meant hunkering in a closet as if he were a survivor of some gory zombie apocalypse taking refuge in a makeshift bunker. At least in the closet he could hear the sound of his teammates laughing and joking as they trailed down the hallway out of the arena, leaving practice. Every set of footsteps that went by meant that Hank was a little closer to freedom. 

The footsteps that Hank could hear approaching the closet down the corridor sounded much like any other that had reached his ears, except they seemed to be solitary steps, unoccupied by a companion’s, and they stopped just outside the door. Wondering if the janitor was about to enter to discover him cowering behind the mop (although surely the janitor would be wearing boots, and the footsteps he had heard sounded more as if the owner had been wearing shoes), Hank crouched even further against the tin buckets. 

However, his best efforts at concealment were to no avail when Nick Lidstrom strode in and his keen azure eyes alit on Hank at once, and Hank felt nervous that his hiding place had been uncovered but also relief since Nick didn’t seem the type to go around hurling shaving cream pies in innocent people’s faces on the flimsy pretext that it was their birthday. Wending his way between the vacuum cleaner and broomstick, Nick arched an eyebrow as he approached Hank, asking in Swedish because nobody with a first language other than Swedish was around, “Why are you hiding in a closet? I’ve been looking all over for you, Zatta.” 

“I don’t want a shaving cream pie in my face.” Hank answered Nick’s question and then added one of his own. “What did you need me for, Nick?” 

“To tell you that the Captain wants to see you,” replied Nick, and there was something in his reverential inflection as he spoke of the Captain that made Hank shiver along his spine. 

“Is he mad at me?” Hank nibbled his lip. 

“Nope.” Nick clasped Hank’s hands between his own and yanked him up from his crouched position among the buckets. “He might get mad if you keep him waiting, though.” 

“I should see him at once then?” muttered Hank, knowing that his hope of a temporary reprieve were frail, and not surprised when it died entirely at Nick’s response. 

“No.” With an ironic twist of his mouth, Nick nodded at the mop and buckets surrounding Hank like extremely bizarre courtiers attending a dethroned king. “I think you should continue to hang out with your friends Moppy and Tinny. Who doesn’t love being stood up for a bunch of cleaning equipment.” 

Hank didn’t bother to answer Nick’s sarcasm, but Nick, who was already steering Hank out of the closet and down the corridor, did not seem to expect any. As they made their way down the hallway, Nick commented rather unnecessarily (because Hank wasn’t stupid even if he had just been caught concealing himself among buckets in a closet), “I’m taking you to see Stevie now.” 

“You’re sure I didn’t do anything wrong?” Hank’s forehead furrowed, because he couldn’t imagine any other reason that Steve, who was too serious to come across as the pranking type to plot throwing shaving cream pies in people’s faces, would wish to talk with him after practice. 

“I’m positive.” Nick grinned, eyes gleaming like twin sapphires on a necklace. “It’s just a birthday tradition that he wants to see you.” 

“A birthday tradition,” repeated Hank, eyes narrowing shrewdly, since he had been in the hockey world long enough to know that more than half the hockey birthday traditions weren’t particularly pleasant for the recipient. “Would it be a good one or a bad one?” 

“It’s a surprise—a birthday surprise.” Nick patted Hank’s shoulder before pausing outside an ajar office door, opening it, and announcing in English to Steve, who was seated behind the desk, “I’ve got him, Captain. He was hiding among the buckets in the closet.” 

“Thank you, Nick.” Steve nodded. “That will be all.” 

Once Nick had departed, shutting the door in his wake, Steve bestowed a radiant smile on Hank and declared in a merry voice at complete odds with the words floating out of his mouth, “It’s time for your birthday spanking with the Captain, kid!” 

Frowning because Steve spoke as if he were giving Hank some huge treat when Hank, even though neither of his parents had ever spanked him since they were peaceful and law-abiding Swedes, was aware that it was a painful and humiliating punishment for misbehavior, not some delightful present or dessert, Hank stuttered, hating how petrified he sounded, “What did I do wrong, Captain? If you tell me what it is, I’ll promise I won’t ever do it again. Just please don’t spank me. Give me any other punishment but not that one, I beg you.” 

“Relax, Hank.” Looking rather wrong-footed at Hank’s reaction to his pronouncement, Steve rose from his chair and slung a soothing arm around Hank’s shaking shoulders. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just a birthday spanking, that’s all.” 

“You’re going to punish me for being born?” Like a deer trapped in headlights, Hank could feel his panic rising. If the manner in which his lungs and the blood racing through his ears were pounding was any indication, he might hyperventilate soon. 

“It’s not a punishment, just a fun tradition.” Steve’s hand drifted down to stroke Hank’s back. “It wouldn’t hurt—it’d just be pats on your bottom—but if you don’t want to do it, we don’t have to, kid. Since it’s not a disciplinary spanking, it’s entirely your choice, and I’ll respect your decision either way.” 

It was on the tip of Hank’s tongue to state that he definitely didn’t want a birthday spanking—because after all only a psycho would agree to be spanked when he could choose not to be—when his mind got stuck on the concept that this was the custom with the Red Wings, and refusing to participate would make him stick out when he just wanted to fit in as seamlessly as possible. 

“It’s a tradition, you say?” Cocking his head, Hank stared up at Steve. 

“A light-hearted moment.” Steve ruffled Hank’s hair. “A chance for me to show how much I love you.” 

“And it wouldn’t hurt?” Hank, anxious to clarify this essential point, couldn’t keep a quaver of dubiousness out of his tone. 

“You have my word that it wouldn’t hurt, and if you feel that it did, you could just tell me to stop, and I would.” Steve’s eyes, earnest as a golden retriever’s, locked on Hank’s as he finished reassuringly, “You wouldn’t need to tell me to stop, though, because I promise it would just be pats.” 

“I can handle pats.” Hank released a rattling breath. “I guess you can give me a birthday spanking.” 

Steve gave Hank’s hair a last affectionate rustle before sliding back into his chair and tapping his lap, ordering gently, “Over my knee, squirt.” 

Tentatively, hoping with every trembling cell in his body that he had not made a terrible mistake that his ass would have to pay for, Hank draped himself, facedown, over Steve’s lap and waited on tenterhooks for Steve’s hand to land on his rump. When Steve’s palm pressed lightly between his shoulder blades—not so much locking him in place, as providing assurance that he was there—Hank stiffened with surprise but gradually relaxed into Steve’s touch. 

Once his muscles had eased under Steve’s palm, Steve laid a second, soft hand on Hank’s lower back. Expecting that hand to start spanking, Hank prevented himself from squirming with a stern internal reminder that he had consented to this, but Steve, apparently not in the faintest hurry, kept the second hand still until Hank adjusted to its presence as well. Then, as the second hand snaked around Hank’s waist to hover over the fly of Hank’s khakis, Steve said, not as if he were seeking Hank’s permission to continue, but as though he wished to be clear about the proceedings so as to not startle Hank,“I’m going to pull down your pants now, kid.” 

Figuring that he should’ve known that a spanking would require the temporary lowering of his pants, Hank didn’t protest as Steve slowly unzipped Hank’s khakis and tugged them down to his knees, not rushing as if he feared that sudden movements might scare Hank. 

Reluctant to admit even to himself that the measured, methodical fashion in which Steve had gone about taking down his pants had caused a rather pleasurable tingling of anticipation for the first swat to blossom in his backside, Hank had to stifle a moan when Steve’s hand returned to his buttocks after abandoning Hank’s khakis, but Steve did not lift his palm to spank Hank, instead resting it over Hank’s bottom, so that Hank could feel the warmth of his skin seeping through his briefs. 

Hank was getting excited wondering when the first spank would come when he felt Steve’s fingers rap around the elastic of his briefs. He gasped, although the thought of a bare bottom spanking wasn’t as humiliating as it had been when Steve had initially mentioned a birthday spanking, and in fact the idea of Steve’s warm palm making direct contact with his behind was strangely comforting to envision. However, Steve didn’t make any further effort to slip down Hank’s underwear. Instead, he let his fingers linger on the elastic band long enough for Hank to truly wrap his mind around the fact that Steve was about to bear his butt before saying in the same voice that he had used to announce the lowering of Hank’s pants, “Your briefs are coming down, too.” 

This time, Hank didn’t have to fight the urge to protest as Steve slid his underwear down to rest just above his khakis. The chill air nipped at Hank’s exposed hindquarters for a second before Steve’s warm hand made contact with it, the pat accompanied by Steve counting, “One.” 

As Steve continued to spank softly and count steadily, Hank felt his backside heating up to match the warmth emanating from Steve’s palm. The whole experience was oddly comforting, akin to settling into a bubble bath after a practice that made your bones ache and your sinew swell, and Hank, astonished and amused that he could find a spanking soothing, nonetheless comparable to a bubble bath, was giggling when Steve reached the appropriate number of spanks for his new age. 

“And one to grow on.” Steve landed the firmest spank he had yet delivered to Hank’s rump. 

“I’m done growing.” Hank’s giggle rose into a laugh. “I’m stuck as a midget, Stevie.” 

“Such a defeatist, you are,” admonished Steve, bringing his hand down on Hank’s rear a final time. “One for luck then.” 

“I thought that blowing out all the birthday candles at once was for luck.” Hank rolled his eyes, as Steve returned his briefs and khakis to their original locations. 

“It is.” Steve tapped Hank’s nose as he shifted Hank into an upright position on his lap. “You can never have too much luck, though, especially in this sport. Remember that, kid.”


End file.
